


Escaping Zero

by swishy



Series: Zero 'Verse [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swishy/pseuds/swishy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey," Combeferre says, "how are you feeling?"</p><p>The truth would be: The same as before, except that the option 'suicide' has been crossed off the list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for bothering you with this thing again. Just, I've been wanting to do this forever, so yeah: This is the second half of "Approaching Zero", since the title doesn't really work for that. So now I've made it a series. Everything else stays the same, so chances are you already know this.

Grantaire awakes to off-white walls and Enjolras' unblinking stare, his face half lit, half in shadow. Next to him, Combeferre is reading a book in the light of a tiny lamp at the foot of Grantaire's bed, one of his hands tightly clasped in Enjolras'. They look positively wrecked, the two of them, and Grantaire can't help but think: _this is the opposite of what I wanted_.

 _Maybe the way I went about this wasn't right. Maybe I should've driven them away first, and then died._ It would've made dying easier, for them and for him both.

It's going to be a lot harder now that they're worried about him.

He tries to turn around in his bed in order to escape Enjolras’ steady gaze, and the beeping of his pulse quickens.

Combeferre looks up and snaps his book shut.

There's a beat.

"Hey," Grantaire croaks. He dimly remembers getting the needles through which he can feel cold liquid seep into his body now, a steady hand, a nurse asking him something. He remembers surrendering himself to her resolute care.

"Hey," Combeferre says back, "how are you feeling?"

The truth would be: The same as before, except that the option 'suicide' has been crossed off the list. Another truth is: Better. Because he does, he feels better than he felt at day five, for example. Physically better and emotionally the same means in total still slightly better. He tells Combeferre the latter, of course, and leaves out the explanation. It's like lying, except he doesn't feel bad about it.

 "Who'd you tell?" he asks through a burning throat. He hopes they didn't share the whole story: Jehan would be devastated to see Grantaire's version of his list. (Apparently he's back to keeping the damage he causes to a minimum now, oh how wonderful.)

"We'll leave that up to you," Enjolras says, and Grantaire breathes a sigh of relief. "We weren't sure which parts of your family you got along with well enough to want them to visit you in the hospital."

Grantaire thinks about his sister. Last thing he heard, she was somewhere in Munich having a jolly good time.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says, not even trying to sound like he’s intending to keep the promise, and goes back to sleep.

When he wakes up again, his throat has stopped hurting. Combeferre is gone and Enjolras has taken over his book. His hair is sticking up in odd places, and he’s sitting in one of those positions that start coming to mind when one is forced to sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair for more than four hours: hunched over, one leg drawn in to rest his chin on his knee. The book is resting against Grantaire’s mattress. When Grantaire scrambles closer to try and read along upside down, Enjolras looks up, smoothing down his frown and smiling at him.

“Grantaire,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that doesn’t belong there.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Grantaire tries, but that isn’t the right thing to say, because Enjolras’ voice doesn’t gain back its usual smoothness when he answers: “I wanted to see how you were doing. And ask you something. My lecture doesn’t start till nine, so I figured I might as well stay here until then.”

“I’m great,” Grantaire says, which isn’t the right thing to say either, but it’s not like him being shit at figuring out what to say is news to anyone in this room. “Go ahead,” he says.

“It’s,” Enjolras starts. “You said it wasn’t about what I said to you the other day,” he finally gets out. Grantaire nods. It still isn’t. “Then what _was_ it about?”

And Grantaire has tried to explain, time and time again, and it always led to negotiating, and arguing doesn’t help _at all._ But this is Enjolras, who will never stop feeling guilty if he doesn’t at least get a glimpse of how fucked up Grantaire really is. And also, Grantaire really wants him to understand.

“It’s nothing you can help me with,” he says. “I’m just an inherently useless person, and happen to be self-aware enough to know it, and have enough of a sense of propriety to want to do something about it.”

“By – “ Enjolras stops his harsh and disbelieving sentence after the first word and tries again, softer: “how are you useless? You’re smart and witty, you can dance and paint and God knows what else, you speak around eight languages –“

“I just suck,” Grantaire says, “literally. I suck happiness out of the world. If Courfeyrac’s a sun of happiness, I’m a black hole. I don’t add anything to anyone, ever. All I do is subtract. Everything I know boils down to it: I know how to wangle a free beer off an acquaintance, I know how to make sure I don’t have to pay the rise in rent, I know how to get y’all to tolerate me without expecting me to give you anything in return –“

“Have you ever thought that maybe we want you around because we _like_ you?” Enjolras sounds aghast now, like the black pitch that is Grantaire is more than he can imagine. Maybe it is.

“Oh, I know you do. That doesn’t make me any less sucky. You know, you’ll always discover something I managed to get out of you when I’m gone, and I bet I won’t have given anything in return. Like maybe I got advice from you, or a drink, or I just spent the whole evening basking in your glory, or I sucked up all of your optimism like a sponge.”

“And your solution is to subtract yourself from the world as well?” Enjolras asks, and yeah. Here comes the arguing.

“As a means of stopping myself from all the subtracting I’m sure to be doing in the future,” Grantaire explains. “I know it sounds weird, but it makes sense to me. I know you’re trying to help, but arguing isn’t the way to go, it just makes me feel awful because you’re just being sweet and I’m like the gold-shitting donkey, except I shit pessimistic self-loathing suicidal arguments.”

Enjolras is quiet for a moment, a hand half-way through trying to flatten his curls, eyes fixed on Grantaire, lips pursed in thought. Grantaire wants to paint him, in this impossible position he’s still in, chin resting on his knee, hands slung around his drawn-up leg.

“Then what’s left is changing you until you fit your own idea of usefulness,” he muses as the nurse enters the room, carrying a tray.

 _Been there, done that,_ Grantaire doesn’t say. _Doesn’t work._ “Yeah,” he says instead.

Enjolras looks at his watch, then points at Grantaire. “I have to go. But I’ll keep that in mind. Oh, and Jehan's been asking for you," he says and stands, placing a hand on Grantaire's forearm, which, of course, makes his pulse race, the rapid beeping resounding in the room. The nurse turns away from the tray she’s been setting to look at him and assess the situation.

"Stop touching me," says Grantaire, and if he allows himself to sound just the tiniest bit frightened, then well, there's annoying your friends into leaving you alone, and then there's the force of a nurse sensing their patient being threatened, which is much more efficient.

Enjolras lets go of him reluctantly when she glares at him. It's funny, because Grantaire has never seen him look less threatening before in his life, and it still works.

He leaves, with one last glare in Grantaire’s direction that says: don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. It does nothing to appease the nurse, who uncovers the cup of soup that’s on the tray and asks, in a voice that mostly manages to stay neutral, “your boyfriend?”

“A friend,” Grantaire corrects. “He can be quite… intense.” He can see her pick the word apart, trying to work out what it means. Her name tag says _Samantha_ _Jolie_ , which is not the right name for her face, stubby nose and black eyes framed by thick hair that’s graying at the temples.

“Madame Jolie,” he tries it out, and she corrects him: “Mademoiselle. I’ve never been married.”

“Mademoiselle,” he repeats, the word odd in his mouth. “Do I have to eat that?” he points at the soup.

“Yes,” she says.

Grantaire pulls a face.

She studies his expression, then asks, delicately: "What is it that doesn't feel right about eating?"

She’s asking for medical reasons, he knows, but that doesn’t keep him from spilling: "That it keeps me alive, I guess."

She looks at him, wordless. The spoon in her hand contains the smallest amount of soup visible to the eye.

Grantaire goes on: “I mean, if you take everything that's wrong with me, it boils down to me being alive. If I weren't, I'd be a joy to be around and an overall benefit to the world.”

She smiles, and hands him the spoon. “You’re wrong,” she says, and lets him prove it himself.

There’s a pang of disgust along with the drop of salty warm liquid on his tongue, because here he is, yet again, giving in, and what for? For the sake of his friends? As if they won't be suffering just as much from his presence as they would from his absence.

He eats up, under Jolie’s steady gaze.

When she’s left, he texts Jehan: _i got myself into the hospital. come visit me tomorrow?_

 _What happened?_ is Jehan's answer just half a minute later, like he's been waiting. He probably has. Followed by: _And yes, of course, I'll be there._

 _went without food for too long_ , Grantaire types, hoping that that'll be it, and sure enough, the following texts are harmless.

*

His doctor turns out to be a middle-aged woman with a frizzy mop of dark blond hair that she keeps loosely tied together, whose nametag says Dr. Amélie Chastain. Doctor Chastain asks him for how long he didn’t eat, and then spends a while puzzling over his blood values until Grantaire gives in and tells her that he’s a recovering alcoholic.

She says, calmly: “A clinic would be an option, if you want to. We would definitely get your health insurance to pay.”

Grantaire laughs, shaking his head. “That’s sort of not a priority at the moment,” he explains.

“Why would you waste six days of abstinence?” she asks, pointedly. “Your body has gotten rid of its addiction. Why not let your mind catch up?”

“It’s – “ he starts. “The reason why I started drinking is still there. I should get rid of that before.”

“There are other clinics,” she offers, softly. Her fingernails are painted a bright green and constantly disappearing beneath and behind pages upon pages of medical evaluation.

“That wouldn’t be a good idea, I think,” Grantaire says, and she lets him go without trying to convince him.

When Grantaire sinks back into his bed he feels exhausted, like no force in the whole universe that can give him back his usual level of energy.


	2. Day 2

Grantaire discovers, to his surprise, that Enjolras actually meant his resolution to make Grantaire into someone who adds to the world. He comes by in the morning, before his classes start, to sit down on the corner of his mattress and ask, brusquely: "What do you want to add to today?"

Grantaire looks at him. The purple bruising around his eye is starting to fade into green, leaving him looking slightly sick and even more tired than he probably is. "No idea," he says. "You tell me."

“A smile?” Enjolras suggests, and he’s very nearly perfect at making people feel like he knows what he’s doing, but Grantaire has known him long enough to see all the little cracks and holes, he knows exactly where to shout “ _Source!_ ” to make him lose his train of thought and scowl, he always sees where he’s trying to cover up the fact that he’s just guessing, it’s in the sound of his voice, like you can hear where there’s a hollow space beneath a surface instead of a solid foundation, and this? This is Enjolras clueless. Grantaire’d never thought he’d see the day. But he appreciates the effort, so he says nothing, just shrugs and nods.

It’s probably best to start from scratch. Enjolras smiles, a tentative little thing that’s trying to be encouraging but doesn’t know how. Grantaire reaches out a hand and stops himself from tracing the bruise, hand hovering in the air. “What happened?” he asks, letting it sink back down.

“Bahorel’s elbow,” Enjolras says, reluctantly. “It was an accident, let’s not talk about it.”

Grantaire laughs. Enjolras perks up at the sound, looking, of all things, proud. There’s a sudden flood of gratefulness to have this sort of expression turned towards him, followed by an overwhelming urge to apologize. It effectively drowns out the laugh.

“What are you thinking?” Enjolras asks.

“That I’m sorry. And grateful,” he says. _You could probably ask me at any given moment, I'll feel either like I should say thank you or apologise_ , he doesn’t say. _It's like maybe, if I just never say anything else, I'll eventually make up for all the damage I'm causing. Which is bullshit, of course, because you can only apologise or thank so often before it gets boring or repetitive or exhausting, but that's how it feels._

“It’s okay”, Enjolras says, and leans over to squeeze his shoulder the exact moment Mlle Jolie comes in with her tray.

She shoots him a dark look, sets down the tray with more force than strictly necessary, and takes a step towards them. Enjolras lowers his hand.

“Should there be the smallest indication that you’re impeding the recovery of my patient, I’ll have you banned from visiting,” she says.

Enjolras stares right back, defiant. “I’m sorry, Madame, but you’re misreading the situation. Stopping his recovery is the last thing I want-”

“I’ll take his word for that, not yours,” Jolie says with a nod in Grantaire’s direction. “And it’s Mademoiselle.”

They both look at Grantaire expectantly, until he gives in and tells Enjolras, “you’ll be late for your lecture.”

Enjolras leaves with an expression that’s an odd mix of absolutely furious and surprised and hurt.

Grantaire sits up and gathers momentum for a moment, before he smiles at Mademoiselle Jolie with everything he has. She smiles back, albeit somewhat confusedly, but Grantaire supposes it still counts anyway. He feels downright exhausted afterwards, as if smiling used up actual resources of energy that he’s running low on at the moment.

Or maybe that’s just how adding to the world feels, in the end. (How can Enjolras stand it, day after wretched day?)

*

Jehan comes around in the afternoon, and the way his face falls tells Grantaire more about the state he must be in than Dr. Chastain did today.

“I didn’t,” Jehan starts and looks away briefly, chewing on his lower lip. “I didn’t think it’d be this bad,” he finishes.

“Funny you should say that,” Grantaire answers, “because apparently I’m good to leave tomorrow.” Chastain had advised him to rest a lot at home, handed him a strict eating schedule for the following weeks, and said that there wasn’t much more she could to for him. When Grantaire had looked through the pages, he’d found a leaflet on a psychiatric clinic stuck in between. He’d balled it up and thrown it away, not even waiting until he was out of eyeshot.

Jehan is blinking away tears now, and Grantaire won’t stand for that.

He pulls Jehan close and hugs him, because damage containment has more immediate positive results than driving him away, and Grantaire wouldn't be such an alcoholic fuck-up if he were the sort of person that always takes the better-in-the-long-run solution.

“Sorry,” Jehan says, taking a deep breath. “I was supposed to cheer you up, and then I go and cry at your sight... it’s just, you look so _unhappy_.”

“I don’t like hospitals,” Grantaire concedes, and Jehan sneaks a hand into his. He does it the same way he sneaks Courfeyrac’s dog bits of his food, with the same guilty expression.

“But you shouldn’t be home alone,” Jehan says. “You could crash on my couch if you don’t have a better offer.”

The thought of returning to his empty flat is indeed revolting, but Grantaire isn’t going to impose on Jehan just because of that. “Nah, I’m good,” he says. “Someone has to take care of the cat.”

“Combeferre took the cat to his place, if I got that right,” Jehan says. “And I meant it. If you’ve got a better offer, I’ll let you off; otherwise you’re stuck with me.”

*

Enjolras calls him in the evening, and of course Grantaire picks up, because Grantaire is an addict.

When Enjolras asks about the smile he says, "yeah, I got a smile out of my nurse."

"The dragon one?" Enjolras asks, impressed. Grantaire snickers, the sound oddly familiar, and remembers that he used to giggle a lot. He can't pinpoint when he stopped.

(He resolves to reinvent giggling. He resolves to make Enjolras smile in a way that isn't careful or tired or supportive.)

"Yes," he says. "The dragon one."

"Well done," Enjolras says, "You've certainly earned your soup today."

And he hasn’t, of course. He could make a list of things he’s subtracted from today, starting with Jehan’s happy face and ending with 400 bucks that he cost his health insurance, probably. But he doesn’t say that.

He says: “Looks like I’m living on Jehan’s sofa for the foreseeable future.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says. “You can come to me, I’ve got a spare bedroom, you know, my parents… it would probably be more comfortable than sharing a single-room apartment.”

Enjolras’ parents are the sort of people to force their family money on their only child, Grantaire knows. “No, it’s alright,” he says, and that’s when Enjolras snaps.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound worried. He sounds downright _dangerous_.

“No,” Grantaire says, taken aback.

“Oh? Because I was under the impression that you tricked the nurse into thinking I was some sort of abusive friend of yours, just to get rid of me! So if you don’t have a reason to avoid me – apart from thinking that your presence does me no good, which I’ll thank you to leave up to me – you’d better fucking stop this game right now!”

Grantaire hangs up.

It’s not an act of defiance, it’s just that realization hits him, and he needs to process.

Because since he arrived at the hospital, he’s been trying to follow two plans that have him head in opposite directions at once.

Plan Enjolras is the giving life a second chance plan, which had him smile at the nurse and hug Jehan and pick up the phone.

Plan Grantaire is the drive your friends away so you can die in peace plan, which had him trick the nurse and ball up the leaflet and try to decline Jehan’s offer.

He needs to decide right now which of them is Plan A and which Plan B; otherwise he’ll just end up causing even more harm than usually.

He calls back after a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he says when he Enjolras picks up. “Does the offer still stand?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, in one long, relieved breath that rushes down the line and makes Grantaire smile.


	3. Day 3

Day three is a good day, or as good as he gets these days. Plan E is going splendidly so far; he even manages to make Mademoiselle smile when they say goodbye. She makes him promise to stick to the schedule, and he doesn’t feel like he’s lying when he does.

Grantaire allows himself to be carefully optimistic by the time Enjolras comes around to pick him up from the hospital. He's awfully well-prepared, has brought enough clothes from Grantaire’s apartment to last for a week. He's even carrying a neat little folder to file away the crumpled eating schedule that he coaxes free from Grantaire's hand, along with every other bit of information they hand him at the reception and that he attempts to throw away immediately.

The ride is pleasantly silent, and Enjolras doesn't throw him half as many worried glances as Jehan would, even though Jehan doesn't even know half the story.

When they arrive at his place, it hits Grantaire that this is the first time he's ever been to his flat. It doesn't feel like it, he feels like he’s known it for years: an apartment doubtless crammed with bookshelves, and everything else painfully neat and spartan, decidedly awkward about all the space it has to offer.

He's not wrong, but it's still completely different from what he'd thought up: The bookshelves don't tower, and Enjolras has actually made the effort to sort his books by color. The ceiling is high enough to make the spotlessness of the place seem bright rather than suffocating, and there's a hint of stucco there. It's decadent in a reluctantly indulgent way. Grantaire smiles. "I like it," he says. "And don't even lie about it, so do you."

"I'm glad you do," Enjolras says, and goes on to show him to his room. (He's got a room at Enjolras'. He feels like he should faint on the spot, or maybe wake up.) There’s a bed and a nightstand, and one of the walls is painted a dark red. The wooden floor is partly covered by a fluffy carpet in the same color. It looks so much like a noble hotel room that Grantaire opens the nightstand drawer, expecting to find a bible. There is indeed a book, but when he picks it up and reads the title he bursts out laughing: It's Marx' 'Capital'. He hadn't expected such subtle defiance from Enjolras. He wouldn't have thought Enjolras would make the effort to do something that might not even be noticed, and to be so symbolic about it.

Enjolras watches him from the doorframe, and there's a hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Grantaire holds up the book. "Trying to convert me, are you?"

"I think you'll find it to be full of interesting thoughts," Enjolras says, seriously. "Even if you might not agree with its ideals."

“Oh, I agree,” Grantaire says, because that’s his glib answer, “I just don’t think them feasible.”

Enjolras scowls at him, and for half a second, everything is just as it always was.

*

Enjolras makes the soup that's on Grantaire's schedule, and Grantaire learns that he's actually a decent cook. Not extraordinary, but good enough to make his own meals. It staggers him that Enjolras would make the effort to learn to do anything that's not overthrowing the government, and be less than awful at it. It makes Grantaire smile, in spite of the onions he's cutting.

“What’s your good deed of the day, by the way?” Enjolras asks later, around a spoonful of soup that smells much better than it tastes. (But that’s just Grantaire, probably; he hopes he hasn’t ruined the taste of food for himself forever.)

Grantaire thinks about his resolve to make Enjolras smile in a way that’s not tired or supportive or careful, and comes to the conclusion that today is as good a day as any.

“Not telling,” he says, grinning, and Enjolras nods.

*

They meet up on the sofa afterward, and Enjolras may be awkward and stiff but he’s there nonetheless, and close enough for Grantaire to hope for some of his energy to hop over. He curls up and reads a few pages of ‘Capital’ until it gets too boring, and then proceeds to doodle on a post-it note.

It’s Courfeyrac in wizard’s robes, arms outstretched. The caption says ‘you shall not pass!’ in bold letters.

He sticks it to Enjolras’ nose. Enjolras doesn’t look up from his studies for another five minutes or so, but when he does reach up and look at the note, there’s a tentative smile playing around his lips. Grantaire counts it as a success.

That is, until Enjolras asks: “Do you think we should go on a date sometime?” and Grantaire freezes on the spot.

Enjolras’ smile is still there, and now Grantaire can see its hidden condescension, a little lofty pity.

"Would you stop that," Grantaire snaps when Enjolras touches the tips of his fingers to Grantaire’s pajama-clad knee. The touch burns through his brain, practically screaming for him to _stop it stop you might taint him_

"What?" Enjolras asks, innocent.

"The lying, and the touching. And the grinning too, while you're at it."

Enjolras removes his hand. "I wasn't lying."

"You were faking emotions you weren't feeling. It counts," Grantaire replies somewhat miserably.

Enjolras regards him with a thoughtful look. "I wasn't," he says. "I've been fascinated with you since I saw you dancing that day. I just," his hands make a helpless gesture, "sort of sped things up a bit. I thought it might help you."

"You sped things up," Grantaire repeats, incredulous.

"Yes. Like with physics."

"Physics," Grantaire repeats. There's a beat. "I don't follow," he adds for good measure.

"Yes, physics!” Enjolras begins in that bright tone of his that suggests a long and detailed rambling, and Grantaire settles in for a long debate. “You see, I've never liked physics. Didn't get the hang of it. But seeing as I was stuck with it for all of four whole years, I made myself like it. I forced myself to listen to the teacher and ask the clever questions and do the homework. And that's why it genuinely interested me by the time I did my A-levels, and why I scored an A and my teacher was convinced I'd want to pursue a career that featured physics in some way or other. It works with everything, really."

Grantaire laughs. There’s a minute shift somewhere inside him that shouldn’t bother him but still causes him to run into the same sharp edge of his mental furniture again and again. "That metaphor got really twisted by the end of it, but I think I got it. And I think that the part where you didn't end up actually pursuing a career that featured physics is where you're kinda sorta lying to me and I want you to stop."

"It's not - I didn't mean it like that, I just wanted to say - just because I made myself like you for practical reasons doesn't mean I don't genuinely want to go out with you."

"Still lying," Grantaire insists, sullen.

"You know, for someone who spent the past week doing _nothing but_ lying to your dearest friends, you sure got some awfully high standards," Enjolras snaps.

"Yes," Grantaire answers slowly. "That's more like it, thank you. I like irritated and blunt-to-the-point-of-insulting-Enjolras better anyway."

Enjolras’ lips are a thin line, and Grantaire can _see_ all of their careful progress fade away, so he tries to salvage what he can with his rotten words.

“I don’t want you to put yourself out there. I was asking because I thought I wouldn’t get another chance, and now I’m sorry. But please stop deliberately tripping yourself into loving a suicidal cynic. It’s no fun.” _I’d know,_ he wants to add, but he doesn’t, because that’s not actually true. He doesn’t love himself, and if he had the option to break up with himself and never have to see himself again, he’d do it and run a mile and never look back. He can’t believe how _stupid_ Enjolras must be to _choose_ to be near him, and encourage any positive feelings he might have towards him to _grow_.

Enjolras doesn’t look like he understands. After a while, he offers: “I can stop deliberately _trying_ to like you, but I don’t think I can stop.”

And if that’s all Grantaire can get, he’ll take it.


	4. Day 4

By the time Grantaire gets up in the morning, Enjolras has already left the flat.

Grantaire showers, pads into the kitchen, and realizes that this is as far as he gets because it is breakfast time and he doesn’t _want to_. There’s a pot on the stove, labeled ‘breakfast’ in Enjolras’ neat but bland handwriting. Grantaire peeks into it and finds a whole lot of vegetables and something vaguely millet-y that looks disgusting and smells delicious and will probably taste just as nondescript as everything has ever since day one.

He sighs and scrapes it onto his plate with a not very appetizing sound. His eating schedule tells him that it’s called quinoa.

Grantaire is not on speaking terms with quinoa. He eats it anyway.

He makes himself a cup of tea and makes a point of adding four sugar cubes.

 _That_ he can taste.

He stands up, and the sound the chair makes when it scrapes against the floor is what sends him crashing, for some reason.

Because _he’s in Enjolras’ flat and Enjolras is not here and he can’t even bring himself to wash the fucking dishes; he’s taking up Enjolras’ space with his disgusting bare feet and his pajamas that are too short and Enjolras is going to come home and he’s going to have to do the dishes on top of everything else because Grantaire is just that useless and fuck fuck can’t you just make it STOP SCREAMING AT ME_

He needs a drink.

He raids two cupboards before a second thought joins that first one and says: _But you can’t drink._

It’s simple as that. He can't waste nine days of sobriety; he already wasted six days of starving.

He finds a bottle of rum, and stares at it. He doesn’t drink it.

(Not drinking it does nothing to numb him though, or to tone down the self-disgust. It doesn’t even take away the urge. It just leaves him one option shorter.)

 _Call me when it gets unbearable_ , Combeferre had said, and so Grantaire does.

“There’s rum in his cupboard what do I do,” he hisses into the receiver as soon as Combeferre picks up.

“Pour it down the sink,” is Combeferre’s immediate response. The sound of his voice, steady and calm as always, takes away the edge of Grantaire’s panic, and he’s able to sit back down and stare at the bottle morosely.

“No,” he says, “the problem is not the not drinking part. The problem is _what do I do instead?_ ”

Combeferre is silent for a moment.

“Doodle on your skin with a sharpie,” he offers eventually. “Put on headphones and set the volume to max. Hoover. Rip newspapers. Scream. Bake. Eat ice cubes until you get brainfreeze. Take a bath in almost too-hot water. I don’t know what works for you.”

“There are some that sound like they might work,” Grantaire says. There’s the faint hope that he’ll be able to keep his head over water until Enjolras comes home.

(As if with Enjolras’ return all of his problems would vanish. As if Enjolras’ return would do anything for him. But it’s a time he can set for himself, and then he can plan from there as events unfold.)

He ends up making pancakes that he won’t be allowed to eat, and gift-wrapping the bottle of rum with a bright red bow in a fit of sarcasm.

And then there’s time left, and Enjolras isn’t home.

*

Enjolras finds him crammed into the cupboard beneath the sink. Grantaire has heard him calling, wandering around and checking all the rooms (which took him a while, that filthy rich bastard) before re-entering the kitchen.

Grantaire must have made a sound, because he’s found out within seconds, Enjolras staring down at him with a befuddled expression, offering him a hand to help him crawl out. Grantaire sits down in one of the kitchen chairs, draws his knees up to his chin and hides his hands in the small gap between his thighs and calves.

"What happened?" is the question Enjolras decides for, after a moment. He tries not to look at the bottle, but well, it’s got a bright red bow, there’s only so much casual looking past it you can do.

 _I realized that I'm taking up space that rightfully belongs to others_ , Grantaire doesn't say. “It’s my good deed of the day,” he says, pointing at the bottle. Enjolras frowns. “It’s yours. I found it. I didn’t drink it. That’s the best I could manage. You’re welcome.”

Enjolras gets up to make tea.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he says slowly, filling the kettle, and adds: “I really have no idea what to do. Do you need anything? Should I call Jehan? Combeferre?”

And because Grantaire is some kind of monster that sucks happiness out of people and because Enjolras' expression may be absolutely devoid of anything that might even remotely resemble happiness but there could still be some comfort for him left somewhere in the cracks of that half-tired, half-worried beautiful face of his, he says, "hug me?"

Enjolras, in an unexpected turn of events, smiles. It's a tiny little thing, more of a quirk to his lips than an actual smile, but it's not something Grantaire expected his words to elicit. And then he's encased in Enjolras’ arms, and allows himself a moment of selfishness, because Enjolras smells of peppermint and wool and he doesn't let go for a long while.


	5. Day 5

### Chapter Text

Day five allows for some indulgence in terms of food, and so Grantaire orders a small plate of tapas to go with his beer at the Musain that evening.

And just like that, all eyes are on him. Most of them don’t know any of the story, but Grantaire can see annoyance in almost half of their faces. Bahorel turns away from him, Bossuet draws his brows together, and even Jehan doesn’t look pleased behind his usual concerned expression.

Grantaire ends up not drinking the beer, pushing it over to Combeferre instead, and their expressions smooth out somewhat, relaxing back into their usual state.

He doesn’t eat the tapas either, which has Enjolras frown at him and Combeferre throw him a pointed look. It seems he’s not getting out of the switching his disobediences thing so easily.

And so he can’t help but think, on the way back to Enjolras’ place: He’s not going to be able to make all of them stop frowning on his behalf.

They should just take every ounce of annoyance anyone has ever felt towards him, every bit of hatred and hurt and anger he's ever caused in anyone, and add it to someone else, and then give that person his spare keys and tell them where he sleeps at night. It'd make everything so much easier. Maybe someone else could take his place, someone less broken.

"Feelings don't add up," Enjolras tells him, when his inner monologue gets out of hand and Grantaire says part of it aloud to see if it still makes sense to him. (It does.)

"A lot of annoyance doesn't make for a bit of hatred, and a lot of hatred won't make someone kill you. Plus, killing you wouldn't make the negative feelings someone might have had for you disappear.”

Which, Grantaire has to admit, makes sense, but doesn't necessarily make him feel better about the whole thing.

“And you’re not broken,” Enjolras adds after a while.

“I think I'm the best person to assess the damage in that regard, thanks,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras retorts, in his usual, you-are-wrong-on-so-many-levels, tone, as if it isn’t Grantaire’s psychological well-being they are talking about: “Well, _I_ think you're biased.”

“And you aren't? You're an optimist; of _course_ you'd think I'm perfectly fine!”

“I'm really not. An optimist, that is. I'm an insurgent, I want to change things, so believe me when I say that you don't need fixing! You need a whole bunch of things, and no, you're obviously not fine, but you're not broken.”

Grantaire stifles his laughter because he knows it’d sound hysterical. He’s not hysterical. He’s glad.

“Well,” he says, “that makes one of us. Who believes in me, I mean.”

“And one of us believes in me. Balances out quite nicely, then, doesn’t it?” Enjolras replies, sounding wrung out and sad in all the ways he shouldn’t. Grantaire can see his grip on the steering wheel tighten, and he wants to say a million things. He wants to apologize for jeopardizing Enjolras’ life to the point where he stops believing he can change things, he wants to ask what detail it was that effectively dulled his brilliant character into a farce that’s only pretending to _want_ and _be_ and _live_ with all this intensity. He wants to tell Enjolras to pull over so he can pull him into a hug and not let go until the sadness has vanished from his face and voice and fingers.

What he ends up doing is covering Enjolras’ hand with his own until his fingers relax and uncurl beneath Grantaire’s. “I’m sorry,” he says, because it’s all he has to offer. Eternal remorse.

“You know,” Enjolras says, “it would make things much easier if you stopped pretending I was some sort of unreachable, unbreakable God. I’ve always doubted. I get sad. I don’t always see the point. Don’t make this into another thing to blame yourself for, okay? It’s not to do with your imperfection. For once, this is about mine.”

Grantaire lets out a long breath. This should be disenchanting to him. Instead, he sees it as an opportunity. “What can I do?” he asks.

Enjolras looks up at him. “You could forgive me,” he says. “I’m sorry for leaving you home alone without giving you a heads-up or a phone number or something to do. I should have known better.”

So it _is_ about him after all. Grantaire shrugs through his disappointment. “How could you have known I’d raid your cupboards and crawl beneath your sink? I’m not blaming you.”

“I know. You’re blaming yourself. That’s half the problem.”

Grantaire sighs. “All right,” he says. “Apology accepted. You’re forgiven. Now stop making that face.”

“Which one?”

“The one where you look like me. It’s disconcerting. Stop or I’ll hug it off your face.”

That makes Enjolras relax ever-so-slightly, and huff a laugh. “You know you could just _ask_ for a hug, it’s not like I’m averse to the idea.”

“Same goes for you,” Grantaire quips, and Enjolras frowns.

“Fair point,” he says after a while.

When they pull up in front of his apartment, Enjolras asks for a hug.

Grantaire is happy to provide.


	6. Day 6

The good deed of day six is to get up in the morning and make Enjolras, whose lectures start at 12, breakfast. Bleary-eyed and yawning, Grantaire takes a while to actually open his eyes all the way while staring at the pan with the sizzling fried eggs, which is why he doesn’t notice the bright yellow sticky note stuck to the fridge at first.

He’s almost done setting the table when he sees it. It says: _The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don't always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don't necessarily spoil the good things and make them unimportant._

And next to it, on a pink note: _That makes two people who are always right AND agree. Feelings don’t add up. I am very glad for your existence, and you don’t have to make up for anything._

It’s not exactly a realization, and it doesn’t hit him. Just a thought that uncurls from the dusty place in the back of his mind, yawning and stretching, taking up space it hadn’t dared to touch before:

So maybe he intrudes, maybe he cannot effortlessly fold himself into Enjolras’ morning routine without taking up some of his time, but what if he likes that? What if Enjolras likes it? What if bringing Grantaire coffee isn't the worst thing he’s ever done, what if it doesn't feel like work to him, what if intrusion is what he needs and wants and supports, in some measure?

 _So let me be an intruder_ , Grantaire thinks, letting his bare feet touch Enjolras’ floor and take up Enjolras’ space, and bold. Because just maybe, gradually seeping into someone else's life is one of the nicer things life has to offer. Let him show up in other people's lives as a nuisance or a distraction or a fond little moment spent disbelievingly smiling. Let him sing that off-key song until his neighbor hammers against the wall. Let him be a step more than self-sufficient, allow him to dip into the ever-present exchange of gifts and demands that other people take to so easily, and that Grantaire has to teach to his stuttering heart syllable for drawn-out syllable.

He turns off the stove and is on his way to go find Enjolras (and possibly hug the life out of him) when it comes to his mind that Enjolras doesn’t even watch Doctor Who. Jehan, however, does. He even quoted that exact sentence at him once, on a capital-B Bad Day.

So he ends up regarding the post-it of wizard Courfeyrac telling him to keep out with only a small smile, knocking at Enjolras' door regardless and not even waiting for an answer. Enjolras is sitting in his armchair, with his legs kicked up to rest on the bedside table, reading the newspaper with his usual scowl.

“What did you tell him?” Grantaire asks, blunt but not quite angry.

Enjolras takes a while to emerge from whatever outrageous news he’s been reading. After he’s managed to twist the scowl into a question mark and then into a tentative smile, he answers: “Nothing. I do pay attention to my friends on occasion, you know. I remembered him using the quote, and called him to make sure I got it right. He only told me it was from Doctor Who, which is frankly surprising, because this is actually good advice.”

 _I’ll have you know that Doctor Who practically_ consists _of good advice_ , Grantaire doesn’t say. _You’re wrong about just about everything, including that the Doctor is always right_ , he doesn’t say. “Oh,” he says instead, and: “Thank you.”

It’s those words that he’s said a few hundred times at least in the past five days, or it feels like it, anyway.  He feels like it’s starting to lose its meaning – that is, until Enjolras smiles at him in response, and it may be his careful smile, but there’s relief in there as well, and it’s a good thing that Grantaire can offer this at least.

“No arguing?” Enjolras asks. “If I’d known that quoting Doctor Who at you would shut you up, I’d have taken to doing it way earlier.”

Grantaire sits down next to Enjolras’ feet in front of the armchair, using it as a backrest. Enjolras’ knee brushes his shoulder. “The Doctor is wrong all the time,” Grantaire remarks. “And I won’t refrain from arguing with him, just as I won’t stop arguing with you, even though you’re both way out of my league. But in this particular case? I admit defeat. Your joined powers of argumentation have convinced me.”

Enjolras doesn’t reply, but he does bump Grantaire’s shoulder with his knee, and Grantaire squeezes his foot in return.

This is just the start, and Grantaire doesn't think for a second that he has mastered his monsters now; there will be relapses and flashbacks and bad times as there always are, but for the moment, he's perfectly happy to just sit there with the faint smell of breakfast wavering in from the kitchen and Enjolras' sweatpants-clad knee occasionally touching his arm as he picks up his morning read and his morning scowl.

And, well.

It’s a start.

 

-FIN-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to read more of my stuff, you can see if my [tumblr drabbles](http://www.delabaisse.tumblr.com/tagged/first%20sights) or [Five Conditions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/828993/chapters/1575436) are to your liking, although the writing style is quite different from this story!are to your liking, although the writing style is quite different from this story!


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